


she traces your scars and rebuilds your world

by lescousinsdangereux



Category: Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a crumbling building in desperate need of restoration. That, for all intents and purposes, makes Sam your architect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tracing your scars

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted on Tumblr some time ago, but I thought it might be nice to post it in a more reader-friendly place. It was written shortly after I played the first game, and thus contains a couple details that probably no longer fit with the extended canon that has been revealed in interviews and such. 
> 
> Really though, this was supposed to be a character piece, but then I started thinking about what I thought the next game could entail and some plot snuck in. So this is full of my own random ideas about that, based off what was shown to be in Lara's journal at the end of the game.

_As it withers,_

_Brittle it shakes;_

_Can you whisper_

_As it crumbles and breaks?_

_As you shiver_

_Count up all your mistakes;_

_Pair of forgivers,_

_Let go before it's too late_

[Birdy, ‘Young Blood’ (the Naked and Famous cover)]

 

\---

 

At night, Sam likes to trace your scars. 

‘Likes’, perhaps, is not the proper word, because it might be more of an unconscious reflex or even an attempt at comfort, but it doesn’t really matter in the end. 

Regardless of the reason, at night Sam traces your scars. 

It’s a big ship, so it shouldn’t make much sense, but sharing a room is something that happened without any discussion. You get antsy without having Sam nearby after spending so long searching for her, and Sam—well, she puts on a happy face as she always does (for you)—but you think she feels just as anxious when you’re not around. So it’s almost logical, really, and no one questions it.

Sharing a bed isn’t something that’s quite as easily explained. But in your mind (and Sam’s, probably), it’s a natural extension, so you don’t worry too much about it. Especially when Sam traces your scars. 

They’re easy to find, even in the dark, because they mar your entire body, so chances are, whenever Sam’s fingers come into contact with the skin exposed by your tank top, she’ll touch upon one. But she has her favorites—the ones her fingers keep coming back to with a frequency that is too high to be the result of chance:

  * the ‘x’ on your right arm ( _tumbling off a waterfall—shattering through the glass of an old cockpit window_ ),
  * the line on your left collarbone( _sliding down a rocky cliff, sharp and metallic chunks of plane raining down around you_ ),
  * the mark over your left eyebrow ( _fists pounding into the flesh of your face, again and again, screams of_ ‘Outsider’ _ringing in your ears_ ),
  * and (when your shirt slips up enough to allow it) the puckered skin on the left side of your stomach ( _burning hot metal pressing into your skin, the tears and screams of pain and frustration, knowing you are doing this to yourself_ ).



Sam’s fingers are gentle, and her cool skin feels nice against the red heat of your own, still slightly inflamed in the places her hands roam; it feels like a lifetime ago, but the scars are still new and still red (they may even fade over time, though such a thing seems impossible). You’re pretty sure she’s thinking about the way you got them—not in specifics (like you do) but in that you got them while coming for her. You don’t know if tracing them serves partially as a reminder, a penance, or an apology, but none of the three are required. 

You would tell her this if she hadn’t made you promise to stop saying it wasn’t her fault (you made her promise the same, though, so it’s only fair). 

So you let her trace your scars and you keep your hand on top of hers, allowing it to be carried about by her movements. And this is how you fall asleep—lulled into it by soothing gestures that do as much (or more) than any possible combination of words.

 

\---

Waking up is not quite as pleasant. 

Mainly because instead of soft hands and the steady beat of a kind heart underneath your ear, it involves screaming and crying and shaking and phantom (and not-so-phantom) pain radiating from all the scars and tears Sam had so carefully soothed just hours before. 

But Sam is still there, and her hands are cupping your jaw, and her voice is quiet but firm when she says, “Lara! Look at me, Lara. Just look at me.” 

( _“Just look at me,” you say, though blood is dripping into your eyes and the smell of smoke makes you want to retch and you’ve never been more frightened in your entire life because you know you’ll never, ever recover if you have to watch this. “Look at me, okay?”_ ). 

And you do—even though it takes time for your eyes to adjust enough to see the dark eyes that are wide with sadness and exhaustion—and your breath starts to come easier after only a moment or two. But still, you gasp her name and dig your nails into the hands that press into your cheeks and bring you back to the gentle rocking of the ship and the too soft body underneath yours. 

“ _Sam_.” 

“ _Lara_. Are—are you here?”

_Are you back_ , she means. _Have you left the island that your mind still inhabits at night?_ And of course the answer is a firm and resounding ‘no’. Because you will never again visit Yamatai in the physical sense, but you will never stop returning to it, nevertheless. You feel irreparably damaged, but how do you tell that to the one person who might be able to keep you from crumbling apart completely? 

“Yes,” you gasp instead. “Yes. I’m—yes.” 

“Breathe, Lara.” 

You comply; pressing your forehead against hers as you close your eyes and breathe in air that is hot with Sam’s own exhalations. 

“I won’t leave you,” she whispers, in reply to the question you cannot ask.

And it’s funny, almost, how it was you that saved Sam on the island, but she’s the one saving you now. 

 

\---

 

Morning is better. 

Maybe it’s the light that brings clarity, but when you wake with your face buried into Sam’s neck, her arms locked around you in at tight embrace (digging into your bruises in an almost reassuring way, the pain bringing further lucidity) you can more easily push away the things that haunt you at night. 

Sam wakes slowly and with quiet whimpers, and you lay still and try not to think about how this is the last day on the ship and what that might mean for your sanity; try not to think about the words ‘ _I won’t leave you_ ’ and how far they extend. ( _Do they,_ you wonder despite yourself, _encompass to the far-off places in your journal—the places that call to you with their secrets and mysticism and danger_?)  

But when she wakes, your name is the first thing from her lips (still slightly cracked and dry—yours are as well) and that washes away your concerns, at least for a moment. 

“Hey,” you reply softly, and there’s an apology there that Sam disregards with a sleepy smile. 

 “Hey.” 

Her hold relaxes, but she does not release you completely; instead, one of her hands drifts up your arm and begins to trace your scars once again. The predictability of the motion makes you smile, just a little. 

“You okay?” She asks, after a moment of silence. 

“Yeah.” Another pause. “We reach London today.”

Sam watches you carefully, and you don’t think she can tell that you’ve already called Winston via satellite phone—that he’s prepared everything for your next journey—that you’ll be leaving again tomorrow morning. But Sam’s always been able to surprise you.

“And then? Where are you going next?” 

“Croatoa.” 

“When?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

Sam nods, and presses a kiss to your forehead before nudging you off her to get ready. 

And that’s the end of that.

 

\---

 

Except it isn’t, because after the ship has docked and you’ve said your goodbyes and exchanged hugs and promises and significant looks with the too few surviving members of the S.S. Endurance, Sam is still there, frayed bag slung over her shoulder, looking completely nonchalant. 

“You think we can swing by my storage unit first? I should probably get some clothes and stuff. And, more importantly, I need to grab my backup equipment. That stupid island cost me a lot more than bits of my sanity and my seemingly tattoo-free skin. My parents are going to fucking _flip_ when they see this shit,” Sam rambles, itching at the blue specks on her arm. 

“Huh?” One would think graduating with first-class honors would have instilled in you a fairly decent grasp of the English language, but apparently not.

“You _know_ how paranoid I get when they visit! And that’s because of the tiny little film reel I have on my hip! How do you think they’re gonna react when they find out I practically have _sleeves_? And ugly monochromatic _splatter_ sleeves, too. Ugh. I really hope this shit fades soon.”

“That’s not—I’m sure they’ll understand, but—Sam! That’s not what I meant! What do you mean ‘stop by your storage unit’?” 

“ _I mean_ , I need to get all my stuff. And if the offer’s still open, I should probably just keep it all at your place from now on; who knows how long we’ll be gone, what with us traveling all over the world.” 

“ _Us_?”

“Yeah, ‘us’. Duh! Dunno if Dad’s gonna be so free with the funding this time around, but hey, you did bring back some cool ancient stuff that should placate him, so you never know! We should probably ship that off to him before we leave, actually. You probably already thought of that though.” 

“Sam, you’re— you’re coming with me?”

You can see it in Sam’s face; she’s purposefully trying not to make a big deal of it. But it obviously _is_ a big deal and you both know it, especially when you stutter over your words in a way you _never_ do and gape at her like someone with an IQ that is half of your own. 

“If you want me,” Sam says with a wink, still keeping things light. 

It’s not so much _wanting_ as it is _needing_ and you’re sure some pompous psychologist might put a label on that and call it unhealthy, but you don’t much care. 

So you nod, and say, “I do.” 

It comes out so much more serious than anything Sam’s _ever_ said, and it makes both of you flush a little in a way that might be for different reasons (but then again, might not).

 

\---

 

When you return to the manor, Winston looks at you as though you’re an entirely different person (and perhaps you are), but still gives you one of those rare smiles and helps you gather your random assortment of bags, like you haven’t just gotten back from a horrific experience on a mythical island.

You’ve always liked Winston.

 Sam actually gives the poor butler a hug, and it’s a sign of how fond he is of her that he doesn’t _immediately_ remove her arms from his person (and when he does, it’s done gently).

“Winnie! I’ve missed you, bud! Guess you heard all about how I was taken prisoner for the Sun Queen and how Lara went into total Rambo mode and saved my ass… or are those not specifics they’re releasing yet?” 

Winston winces at the nickname, the insane selection of details, and the bit of profanity, but the whole thing is so ridiculous that you actually laugh, and then Sam’s laughing too, and the wince turns into a repressed smile, because maybe both you and Sam look a little more like yourselves in that moment.

“Miss Nishimura,” Winston nods, the accents of her name flowing naturally from his mouth (but not without effort, you know; you’d caught him practicing the pronunciation in the hallway mirror after you’d brought Sam over for the first time, your freshman year). “Lady Croft. I am glad to see you both well.” 

“Not well enough to be able to go another _second_ without going out for a seriously overdue drink, Winnie.” Sam says, and you groan. 

It’s a moment of severe weakness that has you turning to Winston with a pleading face for a way out. You should have known the blank-faced bastard would have nothing for you. You can’t help but feel a little betrayed, but it’s overridden by a wave of affection for one of the few people you have left in the world. 

Maybe you really do need that drink. 

“Very well, Miss Nishimura. I shall have your things delivered to one of the spare rooms, if that is acceptable?” 

“Absolutely! Thanks! Now, let’s go, Lara.” 

“ _Sam_ , I really hope you’re joking.”

“Not even a little bit. C’mon, it’s not like I’m taking you clubbing or anything. Just _one_ drink. At the pub of your choice, even.” 

You sigh. “Fine. But we need to call your father first.” 

“…Better make it two drinks, then.”

 

\---

 

It turns out to be closer to five drinks, you think, but you lose track after a short while, so you can’t say for sure. 

Still, the way you and Sam stumble back into the manor, giggling like obnoxious pre-teens at a One Direction concert, implies a five drink minimum. So does the way you collapse into your bed (expertly made with perfectly pressed sheets that you hardly notice), all tangled together in a way you should find undignified, but don’t. 

“I can’t believe you told that guy you’d been involved in an incident with a wood chipper,” Sam laughs. 

“I didn’t want to get into it!” 

“You also didn’t have to threaten to use said wood chipper on _him_.” 

“He wouldn’t leave us alone!” 

“Some people would be flattered, you know. I swear, wherever we go, you’re more interested in your books and ruins than the guys. Even when we’re in London! I mean, jeez, how’d you even sneak that journal into your pocket?” 

“People in pubs are _boring_ , Sam. I _always_ bring reading material, just in case.” 

“Hey! I frequent pubs all the time! Does that mean I’m boring too, Lara?”

“You know you aren’t.”  

Sam looks smug for a moment but then kicks off her shoes and begins to make herself comfortable, sprawled out on top of you as she is. You follow suit and poke at Sam’s side until she moves into a position that’s a little more comfortable for you as well, tucked into your side with an arm thrown around your waist (one hand sneaking under the edge of your shirt to rest on your hip bone, thumb running over the raised scar as it was wont to do). 

Sam’s breathing steadies and slows after a while, and it starts to lull you to sleep as well, until she once again speaks (this time breathy and tired). 

“I’m glad I met you, Lara.” 

It’s a statement that probably wouldn’t bring about more than the usual warm and fuzzy feelings if you and Sam had been the typical post-university friends with your biggest concerns being finding a job and repaying loans. But you’re not, so it means so much more; it’s a reassurance and a vow and a declaration, and when Sam’s lips graze against a thin scar along your neck, it feels like validation.  

 

\---

 

You remember it all the next morning, and it’s this reason alone that keeps you from hating the world and everything in it when the sunlight pours through the blinds you hadn’t thought to close last night. Your headache is _massive_ and you should have started getting ready thirty minutes ago (thank God for Winston, otherwise that time would have been thirty _days_ ago), but you can’t bring yourself to feel too upset about anything when Sam is lightly snoring beside you, a leg haphazardly thrown over your lower body. 

You almost feel bad about having to wake her, because she looks just about as peaceful as you can remember seeing her in what seems like a long while. Still, you don’t have much of a choice, and if she wants to come with you (and she says she does—a fact that still is nearly impossible for you to conceive) then she’s going to have to get used to such wake-up calls. Even if you are going to make it as gentle as possible. 

“Sam,” you murmur, brushing a few strands of black off of her forehead. “Sam, you have to get up.”

“Ugh, what?” Another soft nudge. “No. That’s not—Lara, that’s not happening. Oh my God, why did you make me drink so much?”

That comment earns Sam a much harder shove, and you think it’s well deserved. “You know very well you brought this on yourself Samantha Nishimura!”

“Urgh. Not the full name, Lara. I beg of you.”

“Then get up! You can sleep on the plane, okay?” 

Sam opens one eye, considering. “Can I use your shoulder as a pillow rest?” 

“Yes, Sam.” 

“Okay, okay.” Sam rolls over, nearly falling off the bed, and your smile creeps up on you without you noticing. It feels good.

“Wait,” Sam says pausing in the removal of her shirt. “A plane? How the hell are we paying for all this, Lara? I know my dad was all stoked about the cool shit you found on Yamatai, but I doubt he was up for this quick of a turn around.” 

You busy yourself with the last of your packing, stuffing every tank top you can find in a shoulder bag before starting to look for some cargo pants. “My inheritance,” you say simply. “I accepted it.”

Sam goes silent behind you, and you try not to turn and look at her expression (you don’t need to; really—you can picture the shock). 

“Oh. That’s—oh. Lara, that’s a big deal. Are you—?” 

“We can talk about it later, Sam.” 

There’s another pause, and this time you _do_ turn to look at her (because you can’t quite help yourself); Sam’s face is full of understanding and patience and she’s looking at you like you’re her best friend in the world and like she doesn’t care that you have weird issues about your parent’s money that have somehow begun to be sorted by all the insanity that occurred on Yamatai. She looks at you like she maybe understands, but that’s _impossible_ , so maybe it’s more that she’s willing to try. 

“Okay, sweetie. Now, tell me what I should pack.”

It’s only later, when you’ve made a mad dash to the airport and are sitting on the plane, Sam’s head resting on your shoulder (as promised), that you realize you didn’t have any nightmares. 

You’re not sure whether to thank the alcohol or Sam, so you settle with thanking both.  

 

\---

 

You’ve been flying for about four hours or so when Sam finally stirs. You’re reading (re-reading, actually) a copy of John White’s journal that your father had owned. It’s not exactly helpful in describing anything other than the well-known details of his failure of an expedition, so Sam’s return to consciousness is a welcome distraction. Not that it ever would not be, you have to admit to yourself. 

“I thought we were going to Croatia,” Sam mumbles, as though this is the first time she’s actually thought about it (and honestly, it probably is).  

“Croatoa,” you correct, your lips twitching. “Or Croatoan Island; the modern day Hatteras Island.” 

Sam blinks at you, managing to look unimpressed even with the remnants of sleep in her eyes. 

“Roanoke? The Lost Colony?” 

“Gotcha,” Sam yawns. “I thought that was all discovered and whatnot; the settler’s all went native or something, right? And anyways, isn’t it a huge tourist trap?” 

“Yes, that’s the running theory. And Roanoke Island is a popular destination for tourists.”

“But…?” 

“But I think all previous archeological excavations may have been… looking in the wrong place.” 

“You’re not being cryptic _at all_ , Lara.” 

“I don’t know a lot, Sam. Just what I—my father used to tell me this story. He grew up in North Carolina, you know? And there was this story about Roanoke that… well, that I’d always dismissed as fantasy, but now…” 

Sam’s look is knowing. “Now it’s not so easy to dismiss that stuff.”

Your eyes drift down to Sam’s hand, covering yours, where the specks of blue are clearly visible in the dim lighting. “No. Not anymore.” 

You feel Sam shift against you, sitting up a little more fully. “So your dad…?” 

“I still—I don’t think he should have always _left_ like that—always going on those ridiculous journeys and taking me with him, even when he knew he would be too busy to really take care of me. And then when he took my mom with him on that goddamn last minute trip and they—” 

It’s difficult to get the words out; you’ve never much liked talking about your father at all, let alone in _this_ way. But Sam’s staring at you in that soft way of hers—the way she _always_ stares at you when she thinks you ought to be talking about _feelings_. 

“But now, at least, I—” You sigh. 

“Understand the pull.” 

“Yes.” 

“Does that worry you?” 

You hadn’t really thought about the question (tried not to, at least), but it’s a valid one, and you feel a spike of appreciation for Sam, because even if it’s a question no one (let alone you) wants to ask, it’s one that _should_ be asked, and Sam’s brave enough to do it. 

“Yes.” 

Sam squeezes your hand and smiles.

“It shouldn’t. You’ve got me to keep you in line, after all.” 

It’s a joke (punctuated with Sam’s customary wink) but it makes a weight lift from your chest, nevertheless.

 

\---

 

Raleigh-Durham International isn’t exactly the Dragon’s Triangle, and that’s kind of a (huge) relief. 

It’s not as interesting, of course, but it’s quite a bit more convenient, and Sam drags you over to a _Five Guys_   right in the middle of the terminal, as soon as your plane lands.

“Do you know how badly I need a burger, Lara? Because I don’t think you do. I mean, jeez, did we really have to leave the _day_ after we got back? Have you not heard of a rest period? Oh my god, look, Lara; _bacon_ cheeseburgers. Oh, god, I’m drooling.” 

Sam’s halfway through absolutely devouring her burger (loaded with ‘every single goddamn topping you’ve got’, which had gotten Sam some strange looks, and a glare from the woman with the three small children standing at her side, but Sam apparently could not have cared less) when you think to answer her question, because you feel like it deserves an honest answer. 

“I didn’t want to stick around there, Sam. I didn’t want to deal with…” 

“I know, sweetie.” The words should be less sincere, delivered in between large bites of burger, but Sam manages to make it work, somehow.  

“Besides,” you add, suddenly feeling guilty, “We’re just going to be doing research for a little while. Nothing adventurous.” 

“Yet,” Sam says, but then frowns down at the salad you’re picking at with a fork. “I didn’t even know they sold _salads_ here. Why would you ever get that?” 

“I haven’t much felt like meat; the memories of slaughtering and gutting make the prospect rather unappealing.” 

Sam makes a face, but takes an especially large bite of her burger, nevertheless. “You are such a downer sometimes, Lara.” 

It’s a joke, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Sometimes.

 

\---

 

Sometimes, like that very night, when you wake up screaming (again), remembering the way it had felt when you’d pulled the trigger and blood had slushed down from the exposed skull and onto your hands and it had been easy (so, so easy). It had been a fight for survival—a fight for your life—but it shouldn’t have been so very easy.

But Sam’s there—as she always is—even though you had gotten a hotel room with two queens, and foolishly started out the night in two separate beds. Because you’d thought—for some reason you’d thought—that continuing on with the dependency was setting yourself up for an even bigger fall, eventually, but now, once again in Sam’s arms, you don’t really care. 

“He would have shot me—if I—if I hadn’t.”

It’s illogical—almost ridiculous—that you keep going back to that moment (that your mind keeps dragging you there) even after all the men you subsequently killed. But logic doesn’t have any place in dreams. Or maybe the only logic it makes is of the psychological sort, which is maybe worse, as you’ve never been a fan of the softest of sciences. 

But none of that really matters now because you’re trembling in a way you find pathetic. 

“It wasn’t even—I _had_ to—he would have…”

Sam always seems to know the right thing to say, and in that moment, she says it without any words at all, pulling you closer and letting the shakes fade. 

You’re falling apart, but Sam keeps patching the holes in your mortar.

 

\---

 

You’re not the only one with nightmares, of course. 

Of this you’re approximately 94% sure. You’ve never actually _seen_ Sam have one, but she always _has_ been quite skilled at hiding her unease, discomfort, and any other unpleasant emotions from you, and you don’t exactly know how to feel about that (guilty, grateful, or just sad).

“You can talk to me, you know,” you say, eyes firmly fixed on the road as you head into Durham, the designated driver as always (because Sam has a hard time with the whole driving-on-the-right-side-of-the-road thing). “If you want.”

Sam shifts (you hear it in the way her jeans slide against the leather). “I know I can. But it’s—I mean, it’s not like I went through anything like you did, L.C.” 

The nickname is said without thought, but Sam almost chokes on it, halfway through, because that’s what Alex had always called you and Alex was… 

You risk taking your eyes off the road to find Sam’s hand, balled into a tight fist that negates her words with the utmost effectiveness, and place yours over it. “You went through a lot.”

 The hand relaxes and flips, so that you are palm to palm. The rough burn on your skin rubs against the smoothness of Sam’s, and you wonder if that’s always how it’s going to be—your scars wearing away the softness of others  (and of one in particular, whose own scars—hidden below the surface—you fear will be exposed by the abrasive association). 

“I sleep better when we’re together,” Sam says finally, after a long, _long_ moment. 

You nod. “Okay.”

 

\---

 

Which means it’s a good thing the apartment Winston (somehow) leased for six months (just off of Duke’s campus) is a single. 

It’s decently sized, despite this; the type of place a couple might live comfortably, with a shower/bath, kitchen(ette), laundry room, living room with a fireplace (that you’ll resist using to the bitter end), and even a small study (which your books will surely fill to the point of clutter). Winston’s shipped all your stuff here (old books and new furniture) and it’s all set up, so basically, the place is _practically_ perfect for you and Sam. 

‘Practically’, because after you’ve picked up the key and start lugging Sam’s personal belongings upstairs, you run into _Chad_ and _Derek_ , two first year med students who make Sam giggle (and you frown) with their antics. The boys turn out to be your neighbors and you don’t relish the idea of spending any more time with them (and yes, perhaps you fear that Sam might, and that bothers you for reasons you don’t immediately understand and do not care to contemplate).

But despite that (minor) distraction, it doesn’t take long for you to settle in. Since the hard work is mostly already done, Sam throws her things on the floor of your closet (your ‘shared’ closet, which you foresee being overtaken by overpriced leather jackets and skinny jeans), and you both head to the nearby Whole Foods, where you and Sam stock up on the necessities (and Sam nearly sheds a tear at the sight of so much packaged and processed food). 

Neither you or Sam are particularly gifted culinarily; this you’d learned during your first meeting at the beginning of your freshman year of boarding school in the dorm’s community kitchen (a meeting involving Pot Noodles—Southern Fried Chicken for her, Chinese Chow Mein for you—a single microwave, and a level of exhaustion that only 3 AM can bring).  

But over time, Sam _had_ learned how to make a pretty stellar Mac n’ Cheese, and it’s an act of mercy when she offers to make it that first night in your new apartment. And when she places a bowl of it on the coffee table in front of you, sans bacon (Sam’s very favorite part), you feel warmth spread in your chest in a way nearly overpowers you. You think she understands that the way you shift into her side as you both sit on the leather couch, watching mindless TV, is your way of saying thank you (because you can’t quite manage anything else without feeling overwhelmed). 

Afterwards, you wash the dishes while she falls asleep on the couch and it feels rather perfect in every way.

In fact, it feels a lot like contentment, which you had not thought you would ever again feel.

 

\---

 

“So what’s the plan, chief?” 

Sam’s voice is raspy from sleep, because the plan thus far has only involved your bed, which, now that you’re far away from London, you don’t feel the same pull to leave—that pull that had only barely been enough to remove you from Sam’s side the morning before. 

“I have to make a few calls,” you sigh. “Connect with Dr. Abernatch. He’s—as far as I can tell—going to be my best resource here. He’s renowned for his work on Roanoke—spent decades studying it, but his later work on the subject… well, many people thought he’d simply run out of things to prove empirically, and it did not receive the same attention as his earlier work.” 

Sam hums, and you think she might be about to drift back off to sleep, despite it being nearly noon.

“So this guy thinks some weird shit went down on Roanoke? Like, weird, spirit-related, shit?” 

“He—I don’t know. In his later work, there were only brief mentions of what I think may be some kind of… mystical explanation. I need to speak with him.” 

“How do you even know all this stuff, Lara? We seriously _just_ got back to civilization, and unless you found some wi-fi and an iPhone on that damn island…” 

“I _read_ , Sam.” 

You can almost feel Sam roll her eyes, and the way she turns over to butt her head into your shoulder only furthers your suspicion. 

“I read it before—before we left. My father… he had a journal. He recorded many things that I’ve always thought nonsensical.” 

“Gotcha. So now it all needs to be investigated and whatnot,” Sam says, propping herself up on her elbow. “But we can put it off for one more day, don’t you think?”

Your eyebrows rise. “To do _what_?” 

Sam grins.

 

\---

 

“Shit, shit, shit, bugger, shit!” 

“Sam…”

“C’mon, you goddamn blue piece of shit!” 

“Sam.”

“If you don’t go into the hole this time, I’m going to punt you off of the fuc—” 

“ _Sam_!” 

You’re torn between supreme amusement and absolute mortification, but the way your lip twitches involuntarily makes you think that the former will soon win out, despite the fact that there is a gaggle of impressionable youth not five meters away, gaping at you and Sam (but mostly Sam) as she spews out a flow of profanity that would have made Grim proud. 

Sam ignores you, taking a deep breath before gently tapping the blue ball at her feet with her club; it rolls forward with all the speed of _B. variegatus_ , traversing perhaps twenty centimeters in the span of five full seconds before falling into the hole. 

“Fuck yeah!” Sam shouts, and you bury your face in one of your hands, a snort of laughter escaping you. But even that poor veil from embarrassment is torn away when Sam throws her putter on the ground and practically tackles you in an overly enthusiastic hug that nearly sends you toppling into the unnaturally blue pool behind you (it actually kind of _really_ hurts, but you’re rather used to that by now).

“I am the Queen of Putt Putt!” 

“I believe you scored a twelve on that last hole.”

“Shut up, Lara.” 

“It was a par four.” 

“Shut up, Lara.” 

“Which, honestly, was rather an improvement from your earlier scores, but…” 

“Argh! I don’t even know why I put up with you, Lara Croft!” Sam says, pushing you away (but only slightly). “You’re lucky you’re attractive and British. Otherwise this would be the end of our friendship.”

“Are _those_ the two deciding factors?” 

“Pretty much. I hope you didn’t think it was all about your personality or something.”

“Oh, how could I _ever_?” 

Sam grins, wide and sure, and pulls you closer again, tugging at the pocket of your jeans, before sliding an arm around your waist.  

“Don’t worry, sweetie. Maybe I’ll let you win the first Go-Kart race, to help you build up your self-confidence back up.” 

_Building_ , you think, is a good word for it—what Sam’s doing, slowly but surely. You are being re-built, moment by moment, smile by smile, touch by touch. And you think Sam might even succeed in her attempts at repair.

You wonder though (as Sam drags you through the crowd of children half your age) if she is making _herself_ a part of the foundation. Will she be integrated in your reconstruction? And if she pulls away, will you once again fall apart? 

At the Go-Kart course, Sam grabs helmets for you both and fits one onto your head, stepping close to adjust the strap on yours. You breathe her in and feel your tensions leave, and you know you cannot stop her from being your architect, regardless of the risks.

 

\---

 

Building, however, takes time. 

When you were six, your father took you to the Giza Plateau, not because he was a part of a dig there, but simply because he thought it was a sight you should see. It was packed with tourists, insufferably hot, and impossible to get as close as a look as you would have liked.

But it’s one of your favorite memories of your father.

_“Herodotus was told it took twenty years and 100,000 men to build this structure,” he had said, gesturing up at the Pyramid of Khufu with an uncharacteristic flourish. “Of course, Herodotus was prone to exaggeration, but it certainly was a massive undertaking.”_

_You had stared up at the great pyramid and felt very small.  
_

_“But why, father? Why would they make it so big if it was going to take so long?”  
_

_And your father had turned his full attention to you (in a way he rarely did) and smiled. “There are many mysteries in this world, Lara. This pyramid is one of them, in fact; how was it built? What lies behind its doors? What was the purpose of such a specific layout? But there is one thing that is not, and it is this: when you truly care about something, Lara, you put time and effort into it. When you are inflamed by passion or inspiration or meaning, you will do what it takes to complete your vision. Because then it will last.”_

_He gestures again to the pyramid before you, impossibly tall and structurally sound. “It lasts.”_

You tell Sam this story when you get back from the Adventure Landing, lying in bed with your eyes closed.

_(“Building something well takes time,” your father had said. “But it is that time put in that insures that what you are creating will survive.”_ )

Sam traces your scars and lets you speak late into the night, her lips against the crown of your head.

 

\---

 

When you wake up you feel as though you are crumbling. 

All Sam’s hard work and you are still falling apart—caving from the inside out—because your body is screaming at you, and the pain in your ribs that has been present since your first (first of many) tumble down the side of a sheer cliff has double or tripled, and maybe it’s because you’re relaxed enough to really take notice of it for the first time, but it feels like your chest is on fire. 

Sam takes one look at you and grabs her (new) phone and does a search for the nearest walk-in clinic without saying a word. Within the span of fifteen minutes, she’s found a place that’s about five minutes north of your apartment, called them, and (somehow) sweet talked her way into a 10:30 AM appointment for you. 

Sam’s rather remarkable, basically.

She even braves those five minutes of American roads for you.

 

\---

 

You have a couple cracked ribs and a fractured finger. There had been mention of other various bruising and perhaps a dislocation of some joint, but by that point, you hadn’t been paying much attention to anything other than the frown on Sam’s face, and the significant look she’d cast you when the doctor had said something about a four to six week recovery time for the ribs _alone_. 

It’s not the best of situations, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. And that’s what you keep telling yourself as you sit on the couch of your apartment, booting up the new HP laptop that had been sitting in the study upon your arrival (and attaching it to the old external hard drive Winston had shipped from London), but it doesn’t improve your mood much. 

“Body wrecked from her last harrowing experience on a mysterious, lost island, adventurer Lara Croft sits in a now unfamiliar environment, typing away at her computer in search of a new adventure that will occur at the _very_ _least_ six weeks from today’s date.” 

And _that_ –Sam’s video camera in your face as she leans over the couch—isn’t really helping either. 

“Sam…” 

“For she knows that if she even _thinks_ about doing any kind of vigorous physical activity, her co-conspirator/partner in adventure/flawless vision of a human being/best friend, will never let her hear the end of it and the lecture will _not be worth it_.”

Sam pauses, a thoughtful look on her face. “However, certain exceptions may be made, if said ‘vigorous physical activity’ involves one of our new neighbors, who let it be said, are absolutely…” 

“Sam!” It probably comes out a bit harsher than you should. There’s a high probability that this has more to do with Sam’s last thought than anything. 

Sam lowers the camera, a sheepish smile in place. “I lost almost all my footage from the island! I’ve got to record _something_ to bridge the gap!” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes, almost fondly. “And that _something_ has to be me sitting on the couch?”

“Well, I’ll admit, the moping thing isn’t your best look, but I figure as long as you’re on the screen, people will pay attention.” 

“Hmm. So that’s why you took footage of me on the boat without my knowledge?”

Sam’s smile widens falsely, and you try not to laugh. “You saw that, didja?”

 “I did.”

“Um… well, what was I _supposed_ to do, Lara? You _never_ let me tape you!” 

The laugh does escape you then, and Sam (carefully) hops over the back of the couch to sit next to you. “And you can’t resist someone who looks so _great_ on film, can you?” 

“You saw that too, huh?” 

“Mmm hmm.”

 “Well, you _do_. I’m _so_ glad you conveniently stumbled upon on my personal belongings while you were running around Yamatai. I foresee many jokes at my expense in my future.” 

Levity leaves you in that moment, though you’re not exactly sure why (it probably has something to do with the mention of your adventures on Yamatai—you hope you will one day be able to hear the name without internally cringing).

“You don’t know how much those videos—and journals—you don’t know how much they meant to me.  There wasn’t much battery left on the camera, but watching those videos while it still lasted—it made me feel… ”

Sam touches your shoulder gently—it’s a soft caress that makes everything within you settle. “I do know, Lara. I mean, I know the feeling. Why do you think I keep this old thing?”

She lifts the camera and shakes it a bit; it’s probably not the smartest of moves, because honestly, it looks as though it’s about to fall apart. Time spent in your pack on the island had not been kind to it. It’s a wonder it still works at all, really. 

“It’s sentiment,” Sam continues. “And you know… I’m glad that it helped. Like, if I couldn’t have been there while you were going through… everything—well, at least my camera was.”

You nod, and Sam’s hand slips off your shoulder; you miss the warmth and the sensation it brings forth.

_Sentiment_ , you think, and wonder if such a thing still has a place in your life.

 

\---

 

You think it probably does. 

(It’s probably even your favorite part). 

Because for you, sentiment is apparently equivalent with Samantha Nishimura.

 

\---

 

You run into one of your neighbors a couple of days later. ‘Run into’ is not an idiom at play, because you actually collide with his form as you round the corner on your way to your apartment.

“Oh, shit! Are you alright?”

It takes you a moment to recognize him as one of the med students you and Sam had met on your first day in Durham, and while you vaguely recall their names as Chad and Derek, you can’t remember which one this is, despite the two having nothing in common aside from general good looks.

“Yes, fine, thank you.” 

“You’re Lara right? Sam talks about you a lot. I’m Chad—we met when you first moved in.” 

“Yes. I remember.” 

“Sam says you’re some kind of archeologist, huh?” Chad—blonde hair, blue eyes, square jaw _Chad_ —grins, clearly unaccustomed to people not having any desire to exchange small talk with him (to the point that he doesn’t even recognize that you’re broadcasting those very signals now). “I always picture old guys in khaki when I think archeologist, so you’re kind of a nice surprise, I’ve got to say.” 

You think about making a similar comment about expecting future physicians to be intelligent, but you’re so caught off guard by the venom behind the thought that you’re left without any response other than one so mundane that it surely leaves Chad questioning your own intellect. 

“Ah, thanks.” 

“So… are you and Sam enjoying the apartment? Derek and I really like ours. Though we were surprised to see you two ladies move in next door, because we thought that one was a one bedroom, for some reason.”

“It is,” you say without thought, but at Chad’s raised eyebrows, you realize what that implies.

“Oh! That’s—uh—cool.” 

This is probably where you should step in and rid him of his assumptions, but you don’t.

It gives you more satisfaction than it probably should.

 

\---

 

You feel the ramifications of the action not long afterwards. 

“So, I ran into Chad today.” 

You hum in response, narrowing your eyes at the words in front of you (as though this will bring forth greater understanding).

“He seems to be under the impression that we’re a couple.”

Sam’s eyes are on you, you know, calm and steady, and you will yourself not to look up from the page, even if the information contained therein will not be grasped by you in the foreseeable future, now that _this_ particular topic of conversation has come up.

“Oh? And did you relieve him of such a misguided notion?”

There’s a long silence. You don’t know what it means, and you’re afraid to look up and find out. Funny, you hadn’t thought the term coward would ever apply to you, but this is a sort of fear you find yourself unable to even face.

“No. I didn’t.” 

Your swallow is more of a gulp than anything. 

“I’m having more fun with him and Derek now that they’re not both trying to hit on me, honestly.” Sam delivers with an amused laugh, but it comes far too late, and feels forced. 

You wonder why that is (and why you hope it’s not simply your imagination).

 

**_\---_ **

 

Dr. Abernatch is a man who is, by customary standards, more than a bit insane, but he hides it well, so he almost comes off as normal. 

It’s rather concerning, in fact, how ordinary he appears at the beginning of your first meeting, when you come armed with your journal and a couple of his books (bursting with Post-it tabs of assorted colors). Because when you mention Roanoke he at first gives you the by-the-book answer, and that’s not at all what you’re looking for. Not anymore. 

“Assimilation is the only conceivable possibility,” the professor says, running a hand over the stands of grey hair that will not lie flat. “And the Lost Colony DNA project will assert this, I am certain. This is why I have moved my research to other areas, Miss Croft.” 

You nod, but do not abate in your attack. “I agree, Professor, that assimilation with the Croatoan tribe occurred to a certain extent, but the archeological evidence does not suggest a _mass_ integration of _all_ the colonists. And soil erosion cannot explain the lack of this evidence; it is, quite frankly, a weak explanation at best.”

“What is your theory, then, Miss Croft?” The man sighs, removing his glasses and placing them on the table with care. 

“You said assimilation is the only conceivable possibility. But what about those that are _not_ , in fact, seemingly possible?” 

He gives himself away in the twitch of his right hand—it jumps several centimeters across the table in a motion erratic and almost nervous. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

“Of course you do, Professor. I am implying that the cause of the colonists’ disappearance is something that cannot be explained via traditional means. And I am saying that you know this very well, and have evidence to this fact.” 

Dr. Abernatch’s eyes are narrow and blue, and you see the exact moment when they clear in comprehension.

 

\---

 

“Well? How’d it go?” 

It’s late when you return, and you flop onto the couch next to Sam (heedless of the way it causes a bit of pain to shoot through your chest); you’re exhausted in a way you haven’t been in a while—in a way that only comes after a day spent debating and discussing—and you feel surprisingly pleased. You love exploring the world and uncovering the past and future in one full sweep—but that is not only done through diving into caverns and journeying into old tombs; sometimes, exploration is accomplished in a stuffy academic office.

Still, it _is_ draining, and you feel grateful when Sam slides an arm around your shoulder so you can lean into her.

“Well. It went well. But we have a lot of work to do. Dr. Abernatch thinks the key to it all is underground.” 

“Underground the _island_? Um, sweetie? That place is like the width of my pinky. Seriously, dig too far down and you’re going to hit water.” 

“I know. But… the professor’s research seems to indicate the possibility of a network of caverns and— well, the entrance has not been discovered yet, but… As I said, a lot more research.”

“How fun. I am absolutely _overjoyed_ ,” Sam says flatly. 

“Well what did _you_ do today that was so much more interesting?” 

“ _I_ went shopping. Got clothes, equipment, and a membership at the rock club in Raleigh.” 

“Rock club?” 

“Yeah, I figure I ought to spend some time on the wall every day or so. That’s a handy skill to have for an adventurer, right? Good thing I have an awesome teacher. Not that you’ll be doing any climbing yourself for at least six weeks.”

“Four weeks.” 

Sam gives you a look; you attempt an innocent smile, and she lets it go (hesitantly). 

“I also looked at the local gun range. We can rent weapons there to shoot, and it’s …

It’s your turn to give Sam a look, though it’s softer and doesn’t contain the warning that Sam’s had.

“Sam, you know you don’t have to do all this. What happened… you shouldn’t feel like anything _less_ , because you don’t know how to _climb_ of all things. Or shoot.” 

“I want to be prepared, Lara. I know it won’t happen again. Probably. But I want to be prepared. If something happens, and you need me, I—” Sam licks her lips and you’re glad her eyes are not focused on you, because you’re not sure if you’d be able to concentrate if they were. “I don’t want you to be alone like that again. And—and I don’t want to be alone like that either.”

Sam does look at you then, and you swallow. You know pain and you know regret, but you wish Sam didn’t understand these things in the same way. Clearly, though, she does because it’s vividly on display in her eyes.

“You won’t, Sam.”

“You’ll help me?”

There is only one answer available to you, because saying ‘no’ to Sam is not an option now.

“Yes.”

 

\---

The firing range is not the largest you’ve seen, but it’s well-maintained and the Range Officers are knowledgeable (ex-military, you’re pretty sure, because they take one look into your eyes and do not offer you a course in basic self-defense, like they do with the three other people you see walk in while you’re there).  

You and Sam complete the safety orientation briefing and multiple choice indoor range test with ease, and are assigned to lane three (which Sam requests, citing it as her favorite number with a wide grin that even the burly Range Officer cannot deny).

“So, you wanna show me your skills first, hotstuff?”

Sam wiggles her eyebrows at you, and it’s just one more instance of her trying so hard to distract you from… everything. It works up until the point when you step forward in the booth and actually pick up the Glock resting on the counter. 

That’s when your hands start to shake. 

( _Rough hands digging into your wrists—a snarling face overhead—fumbling and kicking—and then a noise, deafening and ringing and echoing—and blood slipping down from behind the torn away skin of a broken skull_ ). 

They hadn’t done that during your time on the island, and you wonder why you suddenly feel as though you want to throw the weapon across the room and give in to the nausea burning at your throat.

“Sweetie?”

But Sam’s there, and she’s stepped closer than is probably acceptable in terms of gun safety, and the shakes turn to trembles that turn into the slightest of quivers. You remember to breathe and try not to think about the way it feels to pull a trigger and watch the spraying arch of blood that results.  

“Lara?”

Sam’s hands are warm as they guide your hands down to put the gun on the counter before you, and they’re still warm as they cup your cheeks and press into your skin.

“Hey. Look at me, okay?”

Her eyes are warm too, and you feel like you might freeze without that warmth—freeze and get stuck in some sort of void where you are perpetually hollow and feel nothing but cold.

And it occurs to you then for the first time, that you must love Sam.

It’s a shock, but it shouldn’t be.

 

\---

 

You’ve thought about it before, of course. 

Maybe not about _loving_ Sam—not in those words—but about the kinds of things that might go along with it. 

Romantic relationships have never really been something you felt the inclination to pursue; you have a hard enough time with friendships with your peers, honestly, because while you find people, as a whole (civilizations, and societies and cultures) interesting, individuals have a tendency to disappoint. It takes a rare person to catch your interest, and maybe that vain or elitist, but it’s also true. You would much rather put your time to better use—reading, exploring, learning, discovering—than deal with the nonsensical histrionics that people (and doubly so college students) bring to the table.

But Sam is one of those rare people, and you’ve known that since you met her in that community kitchen—since she challenged you to a game of rock, paper, scissors to see who would be able to use the microwave first—since she grinned at you (in that way she does) when you had won, but let her go first anyways, just so you would have an excuse to stick around a while longer.

Sam is light and sunshine and creativity and spark, all rolled into one. She is deep and inspiring, but intuitive and not at all heavy, even in her introspective moments. Sam is electric and when she is near you, you feel a current of emotion, and so of course you’ve thought about it from time to time. 

Like when she presses her lips to your cheek (after you pick the handgun back up and drill a bullet through the forehead of the paper target) and you think that if you turn, just the slightest bit, you would be able to find out if the ampere of that current increases when her lips brush against yours. 

You suspect it would.

(Exponentially).


	2. and rebuilds your world

Once you start thinking about it, you can’t stop.

Nothing has changed—not really—but your entire perception of everything has shifted and you feel strangely out of touch. Or dishonest, which is worse, because you don’t know that you’ve ever purposefully hidden anything from your best friend. 

Sam, of course, likely notices approximately three seconds after your realization, but mercifully waits a couple of days (which you spend buried in the Duke library) until she brings it up. 

“You okay, Lara?” 

It’s probably the time when you should start talking about your feelings, but you’re more than hesitant to do so for a multitude of reasons, so you divert, but it’s with something that isn’t untrue, at least. 

“I keep thinking about something Mathias wrote. On the wall of his… study. Or shrine. Or whatever. It’s been stuck in the back of my head and I don’t really know why; ‘ _the answer lies with the star’_.” 

Sam freezes slightly at the mention of Mathias, and you curse yourself for being an idiot; Mathias had been a carefully avoided subject and now… 

“It’s fine. You can say his—you can say his name, Lara. Why is it bugging you?” 

You think about going back to the topic of Mathias—apologizing, or something—but you refrain at Sam’s steely look. 

“I… don’t know. I have no concrete evidence, but…” 

“You have a feeling. You’re supposed to trust those, remember?” 

“I think it’s connected to Roanoke; something from Dr. Abernatch’s research; ‘Sie ist der schlssel’.” 

“And that means…?” 

“Well, my German’s a bit rusty…” 

“Yeah, mine too,” Sam cuts in, with a roll of her eyes. 

“But I think it’s, ‘it is the key’? Schlssel is an archaic form of German, but if the phrase originates from…” 

“Yeah, yeah. ‘It’s the key’. Got it. Don’t nerd out on me, Croft. Point is, what’s the key? And how does that relate to some of Mathias mad scribblings?” 

“I think…” 

“Lara! Out with it, girl.” 

“That the star is the key?” 

“Um, okay. And…?” 

“And I don’t know, Sam. It’s just a weird feeling that it’s all connected.” 

“Well I sure hope not. If the goddamn Sun Queen pops up here, well… I love you, Lara, but I am seriously running for the hills and you better be behind me, no matter how much you want answers and shit.” 

You laugh; glad to be distracted from what you had meant to be a distraction in the first place (but then that sort of puts you right back where you started and—well—bugger). 

“I’d follow you, Sam. Don’t worry about that.” 

 

\---

 

A routine develops after a few weeks; you spend your days in the library, meeting with Dr. Abernatch when you can, and Sam does research of her own; collecting video on the background of Roanoke and on the more credible ideas about the colonists disappearance, as well as (for her own amusement, you’re pretty sure) the various more insane ones. She also goes to the gun range and the climbing gym, and you join her at both when you're free. 

But Sam in her climbing clothes, you’ve discovered, is of special note, as it’s a unique brand of torture. 

You can appreciate her fashion sense (though, not so much the mass amounts of clothing she had acquired in her first week here, filling up your closet in a way that is not at all equal), but there’s something about Sam in a tank top and athletic shorts—chalk still on her hands and thighs, and sweat matting the hair at her temples— coming back after a long day on the climbing wall that… 

Well, it makes a flush threaten to break out on your cheeks, and a sort of nervousness washes over you that makes you feel like a typical college student about to take a test that you haven’t prepared for (or so you would assume, because that’s not a situation you’ve ever found yourself in). Regardless, it’s an entirely new feeling, and you’re not sure you _like_ the way it causes your stomach to clench or your brain to go somewhat fuzzy or reckless impulses (involving brushing the tips of your fingers over Sam’s skin, tasting the sweat on the side of her neck, pulling the girl towards you in some sort of Neanderthal gesture) to develop. 

“Guess who nailed a 5.9+ climb today? This girl! I’m gonna make that 5.10 soon—I can feel it!” 

It’s fortunate, really, that Sam enjoys climbing so much, because she always has a story about her day on the wall, and without fail, launches into it immediately after bursting through the door; it prevents her focusing her attention solely on you, which is very, very good, because you’re focusing keep _your_ attention on Sam’s words and not on _other_ aspects of her. And you probably wouldn’t be able to hold your own in terms of actual conversation if prompted. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Hell yeah! The cave is next! I’m going to be upside down before you know it! Gravity is gonna be my bitch.” 

You laugh, but you’ve noticed a particular wisp of hair has escaped from Sam’s heavy bobby-pinned ponytail and attached itself along her jawline, and it takes all of your self-control (something you had at one time viewed as considerable) to not stride over and run your hand along Sam’s skin to brush it away. 

“Anyways, shower time. Any plans for dinner?” 

“Uh—I was thinking take-out?” You had, really, but now it’s a struggle to remember the specifics. “Um—Korean? Inter Korean House?” 

“Mmm. Yes! The bibimbap. You are a genius, Lara Croft. Order it while I’m in the shower and I’ll love you forever.” 

And it’s more than a little ridiculous, the way your heart beat falls into an irregular pattern when you dial the restaurant’s number.

 

\---

 

 “Why do you do that?” 

The next day brings an early night for once; Sam had taken a day off from the gym, and you’d hit the kind of wall in your research that only time would help dismantle, so you find yourselves in bed at a ridiculously early hour (it’s all sorts of wonderful).  

“What?” 

“Touch my scars like that.” 

The pressure abates as Sam lifts her hand away. “Does it bother you?” 

“No.” The hand returns immediately. “I’m just curious.”                                                                                            

Sam pauses and you look down to catch her eye; her gaze remains fixed though—centered on the scar above your collarbone that her fingers are currently running over. 

“I keep thinking I’ll be able to erase them, if I run over them enough times.” 

You lick your lips, and your tone is more serious than your response calls for. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Sam.” 

“Hmm. No, probably not.” 

Her lips quirk upwards, and that’s the only warning you have before her fingers are replaced by her lips—smooth and soft and coated with the lip balm you’d seen her apply not long before. 

“How about that?” 

You want to say yes, just to see if she’ll do it again, but the word (simple, one syllable, _pre-toddler_ level) sticks in your throat.

 

\---

 

“All civilizations fall,” Dr. Abernatch is saying, as you wait for his intro history class to end, sitting in the back row. “It is an inevitability; they will crumble apart just as surely as the buildings and tools and monuments they build, even if such things will certainly outlast _them_.” 

“Without outside influence, you mean.” The words slip out of your mouth at a volume much louder than you would have liked. 

Dr. Abernatch smiles though. “Ah, Miss Croft. Office hours are not enough for you, anymore?” 

You shake your head, ignoring the teasing jibe. “It’s lack of care that causes these things to crumble, Professor, not inevitability.” 

“Yes, but will there not always be a storm? A war? An earthquake? Will there not always be something to tear apart the creations of man?” 

“Perhaps. But with care those things can be rebuilt.” 

“Hmm. That is true, Miss Croft. But not in the same way as before, no?” 

You suck in a breath. “No. Not in the same way. But different does not necessarily mean worse.” 

The man lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “Indeed. But the point is that they _will_ be wrecked, inevitably.” 

You don’t think that’s really the point at all. But then, you and the professor aren’t remotely talking about the same thing. 

 

\---

 

“When something’s remade, do you think it’s possible for it to be better than it was in its original form?” 

The question comes out of nowhere, but Sam doesn’t blink; probably because she immediately thinks you’re referring to her medium of choice. 

“Sure. Rarely, but sure. _True Grit_ for one. Who would have thought you could remake a John Wayne movie well? But the Coen Bros did it, and it was a glorious thing. You just need the right director.” 

“The right person,” you reiterate softly, but Sam doesn’t hear you—she’s already off the couch and heading over to the TV. “What are you doing?” 

“What do you _think_ I’m doing? We’re _obviously_ watching True Grit now. C’mon, Croft; you brought it up. Now let’s see how a remake is _done_.” 

“I think you’ve already showed me, Sam,” you say with a quiet smile. 

“Well, watch _again_.” 

Of course, you hadn’t been referring to the movie.

 

\---

 

You take a deep breath and there is no pain. 

You hadn’t quite realized how prevalent that pain had been (how you had carried it with you during every day and every breath) until now, when its absence is so very noticeable, and you have the ability to breathe fully for the first time. 

(In theory, at least, but you’re still not sure if that ability is one you know how to utilize just yet.) 

“Lara? Are you…?” 

“I’m fine.” You reassure her quickly, suddenly realizing how it must look—you standing in the middle of the bedroom with your shirt fully unbuttoned, frozen in place in the middle of dressing. 

Sam disregards your words, of course, and steps around the bed and moves closer—her eyes roaming over the expanse of your skin normally not accessible to them—until she is close enough for you to see the moisture on her lips from the glass of water she had just sipped from. 

“Are you in pain? Do you—is it your ribs? Are they—?” 

She pushes your shirt back even further, and then suddenly you _are_ fully employing the capacity to breathe deeply (and sharply) again, because her hands are ghosting along the skin over your ribs and you need all the air you can get to combat the feeling of light headedness that nearly overtakes you. 

“I’m fine,” you say again, resorting to repetition when your cleared mind makes everything else suddenly impossible. 

Sam doesn’t step back, or even remove her hands. You think her eyes might be darker than you remember them being (or maybe that’s the way her pupils have dilated to the point of overtaking the naturally dark color of her irises), but you’re having a hard time remembering or thinking or focusing, so you might very well be mistaken. 

“I—was simply… surprised. They—they don’t hurt. At all.” 

“That’s…good,” Sam breathes, _finally_ stepping away from you (and yet, it happens far too soon, at the same time). “That’s really good.” 

A grin spreads across Sam’s face and you feel yourself responding without any hesitation.

Your body feels healed. 

Miraculously, your mind is getting there as well.

 

\---

 

“It won’t even last that long, I swear.” 

“No.” 

“Lara!” 

“Sam.” 

“C’mon, I really need you.” 

The gears that keep your brain functioning catch on _that_ particular phrase in a way they shouldn’t, and the brief moment you need for recovery is all Sam needs to deliver the final blow, complete with a protruding lower lip that she knows very well you’ve always had a hard time saying no to. 

“Please, Lara?” 

“Ugh. Fine. I don’t see why this is necessary. You’ve been filming people for months.” 

“But I like filming _you_. And besides, you know this stuff better than anyone.” She winks and flips the side display of her camera open, settling herself on the arm of the chair that rests along the same wall as the desk behind which you now sit. 

“What do you want me to talk about?” 

“Everything—Roanoke, Croatoa, all the weird shit that went down, your theories and thoughts and… Well, whatever you’d like!” 

The red light blinks on, and it’s a good thing Sam’s more than decent at editing, because the shot begins with you rolling your eyes. 

“Fine. I’m sure you have plenty of background information on the colony and the basic facts and speculation behind the disappearance, so I will supplement that with some facts that have not likely been brought up in your previous sessions. As you know, the Roanoke colony was founded in 1585, but the particular group of interest is the one lead by John White, who brought an entirely new group of colonists to the island in 1587. They were as hopeless as the first group of colonists, of course, so they shortly after urged White to set sail for England to collect supplies and aid. He left, leaving behind his granddaughter, the iconic Virginia Dare—famous of course, for being the first English child born in the Americas— and all the others. But when he returned in 1590, the colony was deserted—not a trace of a single colonist to be found. The only clue was the word ‘Croatoan’ carved on one of the fort posts, and the first three letters of, presumably, the same word, carved into a tree. 

“But this is information you know. The interesting bit comes from Dr. Abernatch’s research. Nearly a hundred years later, you see, colonization was still, of course, very much ongoing, to the point that even the Germans were taking part in the exploitation. Of course, German occupancy was mostly located in Africa, but of special note were those involved in the slave trade, which the Germans thought would benefit from having a base on one of the Caribbean islands. The more well-known result of this was the Brandenburg colony on St. Thomas, which was essentially rented from the Danes. It ended poorly for the Germans, and the colony only lasted for a short while, but during this time, ships traveled in between the colonies in Africa, and the one on St. Thomas. 

“This is mundane and not of any use to us, aside from the fact that ships were occasionally lost while undertaking this journey, and one of these ships belonged to the otherwise historically inconsequential Joachim Falk, who was transporting a small shipment of slaves in 1688 when something went horribly wrong. What went wrong, exactly, is unknown. What _is_ known is that Falk was found by the British colonists of the Albemarle Settlements, washed up on the banks of the Chowan River, absolutely stark, raving mad, repeating a single phrase over and over again, ‘sie ist der schlssel’; meaning, ‘it is the key’. 

“There was a colonist who understood bits of German who tried to get more of the story out of Falk, with little success. In fact, aside from ‘sie ist der schlssel’, Falk only spoke a few other terms, translating to ‘white woman’, ‘spear’, ‘cave’, and  ‘island’. He died shortly after, and the story would have been lost to us, if not for that settler who spoke limited German recording the event in his journal—a journal that, through a twisted series of inheritances, ended up in Dr. Abernatch’s possession when he was a young man, first investigating the Roanoke colony disappearances. 

“It is Dr. Abernatch’s hypothesis that the fate of Joachim Falk is connected to that of the Roanoke settlers, for finding a white woman east of the Albemarle Settlements would have been… well, there _were_ no settlements in the direction Falk had presumably come from, aside from the abandoned one at Roanoke. It stands to reason that this key he spoke of, especially when viewed in the context of his own and unexplained madness, could be that to the mystery of the Roanoke colony, whether that key was related to the woman, the spear, or something else entirely. It could also presumably be truly mad ravings, in which case all of this would be a colossal waste of time, but…” 

You trail off, taking notice of your surroundings for the first time, and more specifically, the odd look in Sam’s eye as she watches you on the fold-out screen of her camera. It throws you off-balance, because you’re not sure that you’ve seen that particular look on her face before, at least not with that same level of intensity, and you don’t know what to make of it. 

“…What?” 

You realize, belatedly, that you’ve probably just ruined a take for Sam, but the girl doesn’t seem to mind in the least, glancing up from the screen to look at you, only emphasizing the strange glint in her eyes and (upon further inspection) the faint blush to her cheeks. 

“It’s just… you light up, you know? When you get caught up in this stuff. I haven’t seen it in a while and I forgot how it makes you light up and I…” 

Sam’s eyes do not leave yours and you find you can’t look away; there’s something behind them—something that _needs_ to be uncovered and deciphered and examined but you just can’t quite… 

The moment is broken when Sam blinks and shakes her head, turning off her camera as she stands. “It’s good film, is all. Really good film. And I think I’ve got all I need from you for now, Lara. So I’ll leave you to your research for a couple hours. But then dinner, okay?” 

You nod. 

You should say something, you think, but the words slip from your skull—before you can figure out what they might even be—and remain unsaid.

 

\---

 

In early Mesoamerican cultures, courting was done through the use of a professional matchmaker, called an _ah atanzah_. To not use one was a sign of dishonor and pettiness on the part of the groom, and such matches were rarely a success. 

In the 17th century, Welsh men would express their intentions by offering the object of their affection a lovespoon—a fastidiously detailed wooden spoon, carved by the admirer for his lady love. Should the spoon be accepted, marriage plans would result. 

In Finland, up through the 18th century, unmarried girls wore a sheath on their girdles, and interested males would construct or (if not possessing of the proper skill) buy a puukko knife to fit into that sheath; the offer could be denied or accepted, of course, but once the knife was placed, the couple was considered betrothed.  

In 19th century rural Austria, an unmarried woman was required to keep an apple slice under her armpit during formal dances. To any man who caught her eye, she would bestow this honor, and should he find her attention favorable, he would then eat the slice of fruit to signify his interest. 

You know all these courtship rituals and more. 

But you still feel at a complete loss when it comes to telling Samantha Nishimura how you feel. 

\---

 

You think it can wait. 

( _Hope it can_ ). 

Because you’re not ready, and you’re not quite sure why.

 

\---

 

Sam tells you she’ll be gone all day, but doesn’t give you details. You don’t think much of it until she returns to the apartment late that night, and her eyes have a sort of wildness to them that you (unfortunately) recognize. 

You’re across the room in approximately three seconds, and Sam is in your arms mere milliseconds after that. 

“What happened? Who—?” 

“It’s not—it wasn’t—” Sam shakes her head, and you feel her take a deep breath into your neck. “I went to visit Roanoke Island today; I wanted to get footage, and I figured people go there all the time so it would be… it couldn’t be _dangerous_ or anything.” 

She pulls back and your hands slip up to her cheeks; it’s an odd reversal of positions, but you don’t give it much thought as your eyes search Sam’s face, trying to understand. 

“Sam, what—” 

“I need you to come with me tomorrow. I need to show you something. I can’t—I’m _fine_ , but I need to show you.” 

You swallow back your questions (it takes more effort than anything has in a while) and instead press your forehead against Sam’s, just for a moment. 

“Okay, Sam. We’ll go tomorrow.”

 

\---

 

The ride to the coast is a bit tense at first, at least for you. But Sam is back to normal, for the most part, and when she turns on the radio, she immediately starts singing along (poorly) to _Thrift Shop_ , and you wonder how she could have possibly listened to the song enough times to know every single word. 

(You also find it incredibly ironic that the girl wearing the $500 leather jacket is rapping along to such lyrics, though you don’t mention it.) 

But it makes you laugh and Sam winks at you as she does a sort of shimmy in the passenger seat. 

As you get closer to Roanoke, however, Sam loses a bit of her cheerfulness, but she does offer you a genuine smile when you take her hand in the car, and again when you reach for it after you’ve parked and are walking towards the park’s visitor center. 

“You know, when I came here, I thought I was going to at least get to see this ‘Croatoan’ message. Or at least the stupid tree with the stupid three letters carved into it. But _no_ , apparently shoreline erosion or rotting timber or some shit means that all that evidence was conveniently lost hundreds of years ago.” 

You nod, the corners of your lips turning upwards at the rant. 

“Anyways, since no one _told_ me that, I went to the stupid Visitor’s Center to figure out what the hell I could actually film here and…” Her voice wavers at the end as she loses a bit of her bravado, and you give her hand a squeeze as she pushes open the door to the building and tugs you towards the small display case where a sign indicates that a few artifacts recovered from the site are on display. 

You’re still a good ways away when the objects enter your line of vision, and you stop dead in the middle of the walkway, fingers curling around Sam’s hand in a squeezing gesture that probably isn’t at all pleasant. 

“See?” Sam asks simply. 

You do, but you wish you didn’t. 

Licking your lips, you step towards the glass display, dropping Sam’s hand with another squeeze, and then… stop, because you blink once and it’s gone. Stepping forward doesn’t change anything; the objects are easier to make out, of course—a few copper alloy square plates, part of a melting pot, glass beads, a tobacco pipe—it’s nothing extraordinary and that’s the problem, because just a second ago they had been. 

“Sam,” you call, because she’s still standing several steps back, staring at the artifacts with the same uneasy look on her face. “I can’t…” 

Her gaze lifts, and she steps closer. “You saw it though? No one else can see it, but you did. Right?” 

“I did, but now—” You cut yourself off, glancing down at the objects in the display glass, and then back at Sam, before slowly taking her hand once again. 

The glass is filled with an electric blue light, and you nearly gasp aloud.  

You know the color—it’s horrifically familiar and distinct—it is the shade of the flecks (still) on Sam’s skin, of the waves of energy that had pulsed around her body in an impassible barrier, of the eyes of the Sun Queen as she was reborn. 

The artifacts are in fragments—broken and worn down—but they have been pieced together as well as possible, and it’s not hard to make out the path of the glowing blue lines over each plate, bead, and charm, even when there are large gaps missing. 

“You see it now?” 

“Yes,” you breathe. “But only when I…” You let go of her hand and the glow fades, and it only returns when you interlock your fingers with Sam’s once again. “Only when I touch you.” 

Sam swallows heavily. “Lara, what does it mean? Is it—?” 

The bright blue image burns at your corneas; three triangles, the tip of each meeting at a central point, and underneath in small, almost block letters, ‘ _TRINITY’._

“I’m...not sure.” 

But it’s probably not good. Even if it does validate your theories. 

At least there’s that.

 

\---

 

“On Yamatai, I found these GPS caches all over the island,” you say, once you’re back in the car and driving towards Durham. The sun is setting and it casts a light on Sam’s face that highlights how unsettled she is, and you want to give her a bit more information, if only to add to her knowledge base (which always makes _you_ feel better).  

“I didn’t think much of it, but I eventually did find two transmissions mentioning a group called Trinity. Apparently they had been on the island, even as early as World War II, and they were aware, I think, of Himiko and her… unusual abilities, which they referred to as a ‘Star Phenomenon’. The fact that they were somehow connected to Roanoke, and that their markings were not visible to anyone but…” 

“Me,” Sam finishes, her lips set in a thin line. 

“Yes, or those in direct contact with you. This suggests that some kind of thread exists between Roanoke and Yamatai, even if it only is this group.” 

“And me,” Sam says again. “Why—why am I the only one who can see it?” 

You remain silent, and Sam rubs at the marks on her hand absentmindedly, before answering her own question. “It’s because of Himiko. She did something… permanent to me. Didn’t she?” 

“I don’t know, Sam.” You hate saying the words, but it seems to happen with an alarming frequency now. “We’ll find out though. I promise.”

 

\---

 

You always keep your promises to Sam. 

In college this had involved attending a number of parties that you had absolutely no interest in (the result of an unfortunately delivered _, “next time, Sam, I promise”_ while your head was in a book) or attending the rare family dinner ( _“My parents_ love _you, Lara, and they don’t ask how my ‘little videos’ are going when you’re around. Promise you’ll come?”_ ) And now? Now it’s harder ( _“I made you a promise. Let’s get you home.”),_ but you still keep your promises.

Which is why it’s four in the morning and you’re slouched over the desk in the study, open books piled around you under the bright but artificial light. Which is why, even though the text in front of you swims in and out of focus as you combat exhaustion, you don’t declare it a hopeless case and head to bed. And it’s why, when Sam enters the room, you don’t notice her until she speaks, voice hoarse with sleep. 

“Lara? _God_ , it’s four o’clock! What are you still doing here?” 

Sitting back in the chair, you run a hand over your face and stifle a yawn, letting your eyes close, if only for a moment. “I thought I was on to something   with Trinity. There was a small branch of scientists from WWII Germany—a group of Nazis connected to Josef Mengele and his monstrous experiments—that was said to have—well, it doesn’t really matter actually. I can’t find anything about it, and…” 

Sam is close when you open your eyes again—close enough to push a few strands of hair out of your eyes as she leans over you, and your eyelids flutter at the gesture while a sigh escapes your lips. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” 

“I made you a promise.” 

“And you’ll keep it. But it doesn’t have to all come together immediately, sweetie.” 

“I just…” 

Having tucked your hair neatly behind your ear, Sam’s hands should leave your face, probably, but they don’t, and instead move along your cheekbone, fingers stroking at the (now) soft skin there. 

“Don’t do this to yourself, okay? Just come to bed.” 

Maybe it’s her phrasing, or the look in her eyes (so incredibly intense) as she stares at you, but you swear that in that moment, Sam wants you as much as you want her. 

You stand so abruptly, your chair knocks over (but you don’t pay it any mind). 

“You’re right. Bed. I’m—tired. Let’s just… go to bed.” 

Sam leans back, and you think her expression is knowing.

 

\---

 

It’s a tidy metaphor, _but_ : 

You are not the Great Pyramid of Giza. 

You are not a crumbling monument. 

You are not made of water and clay and stone. 

You are made of blood and flesh and bone. 

You are a human being. 

You are Lara Croft. 

And when it comes to rebuilding, there is a fundamental difference between the reconstruction of a building and that of a man. 

A building cannot play a part in its own restoration. 

A man must. 

 

\---

 

Because in the end, for you, it is a choice. 

It’s not so much about loving Sam—not exactly. 

It’s about no longer keeping yourself from doing so. It’s about not letting past experiences—past loses—dictate the course of your life. It’s about recognizing that, just because you loved your mom, your dad, and Roth—just because you loved all them and they were still taken from you—that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love Sam, or whoever else might become a part of your life in the future. 

For the most important part of being restored is contradictory to what the passive term implies. 

The most important part is accepting the possibility that you may be torn down once again, and then opening yourself up to it anyways.

 

\---

 

Actually _doing_ that though is fucking terrifying. 

Even the _thought_ of doing it is, and you find yourself standing in front of the door to your apartment on a random Wednesday night, pressing the key in between your thumb and index finger so hard that leaves an imprint of lines and grooves, trying to gather your courage. 

You’re not quite successful, but you shove the key in the lock and bust through the door anyways. You nearly run back out immediately after, of course, because Sam’s standing there, in the kitchen, looking at you with raised eyebrows and you remember that this is your best friend—the person who has been there, at your side, for a good five years now—and if you mess this up, you will lose _everything_. 

Thankfully, Sam is in her climbing clothes (those goddamn climbing clothes) they’re quite effective at clearing your brain of any thoughts _not_ related to doing all sorts of things to said best friend. 

“I want to kiss you.” 

You breathe in, sucking the air into your lungs fully (because this isn’t how this was supposed to go _at all_ ). 

“In fact, I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while. I actually can’t stop thinking about you and it’s becoming something of a distraction in my research and so I thought I ought to rectify that.” You take another breath. “For…science.” 

Sam is not a person who hides her feelings well, but you’re unable to decipher the emotion on her face at the end of your burst of confidence. Maybe because it’s a rather blank expression, and that scares you enough to continue speaking as you step closer, around the counter and into the kitchen. 

“But not just—it’s not just that. _God,_ Sam, I’m—you know I’m not—I can talk all day about the decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and how Gibbon got it wrong but also right, or of the reorganization of the kingdom of Cusco under Pachacuti, or on the numerous forces that drove the Viking expansion, but I can’t—when I think about how I feel about you, there’s—I feel like there’s nothing I can—” 

“Lara.” 

You freeze because you’ve been _rambling_ and Sam—Sam who is normally so full of _everything_ —is staring at you with a countenance of absolute calm, like she’s just been _waiting_ for you to— 

Oh. 

_Oh.  
_

Two steps and you’re in front of her— _right_ in front of her—and it feels like you’re five years old again and you’ve made your very first find. It’s there—right in front of you—gorgeous and undiscovered and all you have to do is reach out and— 

You press your lips to hers—just briefly—just a touch—but when you pull back, Sam is grinning and there’s so _much_ in that smile and you think maybe you feel every single bit of it. 

Somehow you feel it all. 

“I told myself I wouldn’t say ‘finally’,” Sam quips. “But—god— _finally_!” 

And then you’re laughing because how else can you express how _amazing_ you feel? And you are, maybe, that much more restored. 

Sam’s hands grip your biceps, and it’s smooth skin brushing over raised scars, but you forget to care (to worry) because Sam’s lips are back on yours—less gentle and more insistent—and you can’t remember why you were ever afraid.

\---

 

Being with Sam (being with her in a sort of _couple_ way, that is) should probably seem strange, but it doesn’t—not really. 

Mystifying, perhaps, because even after a while of being able to kiss Sam whenever you want, it still feels like something you shouldn’t be permitted to do—like you’re breaking some unspoken rule by being so content. 

Not that you let that stop you. Especially when you see stupid _Chad_ coming down the hallway and _can’t help_ but press Sam into the doorway to your apartment and press your lips to hers. You’re not fooling anyone (not yourself, Chad, or Sam), and it’s probably a regression of hundreds of years in terms of civility and such. 

But Sam kisses you back (hard), and fumbles with the door handle behind her, so you don’t worry too much about it.

 

\---

 

You’ve had sex before. 

That’s what you’re thinking when Sam shoves you through the door to your bedroom, lips still attached to yours, hands already removing layers of clothing belonging to both you and her, and pushes you onto to the bed. 

And it’s not fireworks. It’s never fireworks in situations like these; not even when Sam whips off your undershirt and her lips latch on to your pulse point and then slide upwards, until her teeth are scraping along your jaw, and capturing the lobe of your ear. It can’t be fireworks because that would be _clichéd_ , not to mention inaccurate. 

( _Fireworks—Of Han dynasty origins, most likely; approximately 200 B.C.—likely first developed out of chunks of bamboo—for when thrown on the fire they would sizzle and then the air would expand and then burst through the hollow reeds—and it would cause—)  
_

An explosion. You don’t think it’s an explosion either. Surely not. Not when you reach up to remove Sam’s bra and she leans back down to press her lips to yours and her lower lip gets caught in between your teeth and she makes a noise in the back of her throat and lets her hands move across your skin. Not then. 

( _An_ _explosion—or explosives, such as gunpowder—invented by Chinese alchemists—at first they were comprised of sulfur and charcoal and saltpeter—potassium nitrate basically—but this was dangerous—the smallest of mistake could result in—)  
_

Sparks. Maybe it’s sparks; sparks that skid around your skin wherever Sam’s hands roam, and when they trace along the scar on the side of your abdomen, the sparks catch and so does your breath. 

( _Sparks—an essential and ancient tool—created through various means—wool and a battery—flint and butane—electrical resistance and tinder—steel and quartz—and of—course—the age-old method of—)  
_

Friction. It’s definitely friction—the way Sam’s body slides against yours—the way her thigh presses into and moves right where it should—and when your hips jerk and a moan escapes you, you push further into her . 

( _Friction—using friction—the force that resists relative motion—motion of objects or surfaces—moving against each other—the rapid grind—grinding—of two pieces of wood—against—each—other—will create—)  
_

Fire. It is fire when Sam’s hand traces your scar to its end and continues downwards, catching on your hipbone and then—then lower. And when Sam looks at you, breath coming in short gasps—there’s fire there too—in her eyes, and _god_ —god. 

( _Fire—rapid oxidation—exothermic reaction—products of heat—and light—and carbon di—oxide—it is simply—)  
_

Combustion. Oh, god—it’s combustion—you’re combusting. Does that make sense? But when Sam’s fingers tease at your entrance and then slip through and then move and press and curl and hit just the right— 

( _Combustion—oxidant—fuel—and—e-quil-i-bri-um_ ) 

Equilibrium. 

_(…)_

 

\---

 

When you wake in the morning, you are wrapped around Sam’s warm body, and you are happy. 

It’s honestly as simple as that.

 

\---

 

“I should probably get back to my research sometime.” 

Sam hums against your neck, and you have to catch the hand that she starts to run down your body, bare under the sheets. 

“Sometime _soon_. As in, within the next half hour.” 

“Mmm, it can wait.” The statement is punctuated with a kiss on the skin behind your ear, and you try not to shiver. 

“We’ve been lying in bed for, like, _three days_ , Sam.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sam says, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t just _lie_ there, Lara Croft, if that’s what you’re thinking." 

“Your _tone_ says this is a movie or television reference, but that’s all I’ve got.” 

With a shake of her head, Sam sighs. “When are you going to let me educate you in the finer things in life? Though…  I suppose we can move on to TV later, because for now, I’d much rather…” Her free hand starts to wander, and you laugh at her cheeky smile, before flipping her over to straddle her waist. 

“How about you let _me_ do the educating? I’ve been told I’m rather knowledgeable about _numerous_ subjects.” 

“Oh? Do tell, Miss Croft.” 

“I prefer a more hands-on approach, actually.” 

Sam loses her cocky grin pretty quickly after all.

 

\---

 

You finally get back to your books, and in the days following you return to a similar schedule to what you’d kept before. 

For the most part at least, because Sam insists on breaks, and you can’t really resist her. You wonder what happened to your self restraint, but then realize you don’t much care. 

“Another dead end?” Sam asks, a hand running through the hair that you have, in a rare moment, left down. 

“Yeah. I can’t figure out how to connect all the things we know. Croatoan, Trinity, Falk, the key, the spear, the woman—I can see all the pieces, but the lines between them…” 

“Let’s just go there.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Let’s just go to Croatoa—Hatteras—whatever. Enjoy the day on the beach—maybe even a couple of days. You’ll get a feel for the place that these dusty books will never be able to deliver.” 

“Sam, I don’t know…” 

“Come on! No books, no indoors, no stress headaches—just you and me and the ocean, the sand, some string bikinis, a secluded tent in the middle of some sand dunes…” 

You’re not too proud to admit exactly where your mind goes at _that_ , but if Sam’s rather wicked expression is anything to go by, she doesn’t need for you to say anything at all to know where your thoughts have taken you. 

Especially when she takes your book out of your hand (placing it _gently_ on the desk, you have to notice appreciatively) and straddles your lap, wrists crossing behind your neck. 

“So? What do you think?” 

You surge upwards to kiss her, and feel her smile against your lips.

 

\---

 

Sam insists on taking the ferry to Hatteras Island, and so you do. 

The wind whips her black hair about and she practically glows as she clutches one of your hands in both of hers, looking out of the water with big Gucci sunglasses in place. And you think that it’s possible that, as much as you need Sam, she might need you just as much, because you’re not sure that you could have imagined that _either_ of you would have made it here—happy and healing— during that moment, just a few months previously, when you had carried her down the mountain that should have been the resting place of you both. 

You lean down to press kiss to her cheek, just because you can.

 

\---

 

The beginning of the day is spent finding a campsite. _Alongside the water_ and _secluded_ were Sam’s two requirements and the way she followed the words with a lavish wink made it very difficult for you to leave the tent once you’ve set it up, but you’re helped along by the arrival of more campers, one group of which set up in the site next to yours (Sam nearly groans aloud at the sight), and you head to the beach shortly after. 

Sam films you as you talk about shoreline erosion and currents, and you try not smile too much when she watches you on her screen with a level of interest that you can’t quite understand, but love nevertheless. 

But then you take a fifteen minute break that turns into a five hour one, and then you’re lying on the beach, watching the sun set with Sam’s head on your shoulder, thinking about how damn lucky you are. And it’s abundantly clear who’s responsible for that. 

“Thank you.” The words aren’t enough—not nearly enough—but you desperately need to say them. “After Yamatai I never thought—I didn’t think I’d be able to feel like this again.” 

Sam lifts her head and shakes it slightly. “Sweetie, you don’t have to _thank me_. Jesus, Lara, you—after everything you did—everything you’ve _done_.  You don’t have to thank me.” 

“Well, I—you should still know.” 

With a kiss on your cheek and a smile, Sam turns back to the sunset, and you realize you still have more to say. 

“I love you—you know that right? I really just… love you.” 

It’s an extended and intense stare that follows your statement, and you feel your heart pause, before Sam grins and breaks the spell. “I can’t believe a family of four just _happened_ to pick the camp site next to ours. Because I really want to make sweet, sweet love to you right now.” 

You laugh (and blush). “You have such a one track mind, Samantha Nishimura.” 

“Well, you know, when one has an incredibly sexy British woman professing her love for them, it’s to be expected.” 

“Sam…” 

Her expression softens. “I love you too, Lara. In case that wasn’t insanely obvious.” 

It probably had been, but having Sam actually say it is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you. 

 “You know, it’s possible our neighbors have vacated their campsite in favor of the beach. So if we hurry…” 

Sam grins, leaping to her feet and pulling you up with you. 

“I like the way you think, Croft.”

 

\---

 

When you return to your campsite, the next door family of four is nowhere to found. 

You swear you hear Sam whisper ‘hallelujah’ before she pulls you into the tent. 

But your laughter over it doesn’t last past you zipping the tent closed behind you. 

 

\---

 

You wake early, excited to explore the island. 

Sam isn’t quite as enthusiastic as you are at that time in the morning, but you make her a pot of coffee over the fire and she quickly comes around not long after throwing back a cup of the beverage (that you happen to dislike immensely) lacing her hiking boots and grabbing her camera case as you pack a bag for the day. 

“Adventure time?” She asks with a lopsided smile. 

“Yeah, but let’s take it easy. No putting those cliff-scaling skills to use yet, alright?” 

“You’re just afraid that I’ll be better than you now.” 

You scoff, and apparently, this is the wrong reaction because Sam slugs you (none too gently) on your arm. 

“Ah, bugger! I meant, ‘of course you will be, Sam.’” 

“Better.” She takes your hand and tugs you towards the beach, and you follow along without complaint until you’re walking along the shoreline, heading north in a way that almost feels purposeful. 

“Where are we going? I wanted to take a look at those partially submerged caves south of here. It’s low-tide so we might be able to do a bit of scouting if we’re careful.” 

 “Let’s just—let’s go this way for a while.” 

“Sam, I’ve looked at maps of this island until my eyes have felt like they’re bleeding. Trust me; the only caves in this direction are more rock outcroppings than anything.” 

“I know—I mean, I know _you_ know. But, I have this… feeling. So, trust _me_ , okay? Let just—give me an hour, okay?” 

With a shrug you agree quickly. “Okay.”  

The pleased smile Sam shoots you is more than worth the slightly brisk walk down the shoreline that takes you about a mile or two out of the way. _Explore all possibilities_ , your father used to say, and maybe it’s about time you started taking his advice to heart. Still, you’d rather explore all logical possibilities first, and the caves you’d had in mind would likely be underwater in a couple of hours, so... 

But then Sam freezes. 

You see the reason immediately, and your fingers reach for the knife you’d stored in the outside pocket of your bag, not an hour earlier. 

“Lara.” 

“I see.” 

It’s a child. 

That is, at least, the simplest definition of what you see, but there are a few problems with it. One, children do not normally carry thick wooden spears, larger than they themselves are, with an air of indifference. Two, children usually possess innocence or naivety—not ageless understanding in eyes with enough depth to make you feel like you’re drowning. And three, children, typically, do not glow blue. 

“Hello,” the girl says simply. “I have been anticipating your arrival.” 

“Well, we hate to be rude.” Sam takes a step backwards, pulling you with her. “Especially after you’ve been waiting, but now’s really not a good time for us, so…” 

“I called you here, Samantha Nishimura,” the girl cuts in. “And it is good you brought Lara Croft with you, as I believe you both will want to hear what I have to say.” 

You have a lot of questions, crowding up the space in your head and making it difficult to organize your thoughts properly, but one nudges to the forefront. “Who are you?” _What_ are you, is maybe the more accurate phrasing, but the child answers the question without pause. 

“No, I do not suppose you would recognize me. No one would. Ironic, with how many times I have been depicted.” The girl pauses and you think there’s something almost mocking in her expression. “I am Virginia Dare.” 

“That’s… not possible.” 

The girl spreads her arms out, as though asking you to take a better look, and the electric glow surrounding her intensifies (and negates your statement quite effectively). _  
_

“And yet…”

“Virginia Dare was born in 1587. You can’t—” 

“And when was Himiko born, Lara Croft?” 

Sam’s reaction is immediate and violent, and so is yours. Her hunting blade is out of her pocket and fully extended in about the same amount of time as you’ve pulled yours from your pack. Had it been a different situation, you might have exchanged looks of almost amusement, because you certainly hadn’t known Sam had been carrying _that_ around, and you’re pretty sure she hadn’t known about your safety net either. 

“Do not mistake me. I am not like Himiko, even if the thing that fuels us is similar. But it is a tool, and tools are not used for a single purpose. Much like the knives you both draw—you cannot call such a thing ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in its innate state.” 

That doesn’t exactly make you relax, and a quick glance at Sam reveals she is of a similar mindset, but you do fold your knife and slip it into your pocket (keeping it within easy reach). 

“The colonists—you had something to do with their disappearance. Why?” 

“It was necessary. Our existence was threatened. I will tell you more, if you come with me.” Her fingers run along the side of the spear she carries, and understanding flashes through you. 

“Sie ist der schlssel,” you whisper. “Not ‘ _it_ is the key’.” 

“Lara…” Sam begins, her tone wary. 

“It’s _‘she_ is the key’. Falk saw _her_. _She_ is the key.” Your eyes flicker over to the luminescent girl watching with a calm smile, and then back to Sam. “And so are you.” 

“Yes,” the girl— _Virginia_ —says. “You are unique Samantha. You have been touched. Power has been passed to you.” 

You take a step forward at a diagonal, instinctively overlapping Sam’s shoulder with yours. “No. The Sun Queen is gone. She’s _gone_. And so is everything she possessed.” 

“The Sun Queen is gone, yes. But Samantha is very much alive. Did you think there would not be consequences of her sharing a body with the soul with Himiko, even if you eventually overpowered her?” 

“No. She’s fine.” You look to Sam, whose eyes are wide, but whose hands do not tremble. “You’re fine.” 

“Of course she is _fine_. She is better. She is touched. You will see.” 

A small step backwards brings you in contact with Sam’s front, and you feel a degree of calmness rush over you. “We won’t be seeing anything. We’re leaving.” 

Sam’s hand slips into yours and she starts to tug you away, but Virginia calls out—softly, but the sound carries directly to your ears, as though she is speaking on another wavelength entirely. 

“You will never uncover the secrets buried here, if you do not come with me now.” 

That stops you, but only for a moment (only for the time it takes for you to remember Sam’s hand in yours). 

“I don’t care.” You see Sam sigh, almost sadly, in the corner of your eye, but you also catch the nod that follows. “We don’t care.” 

“Trinity will come for Samantha,” Virginia calls again. “You know they did not want the power the Sun Queen possessed to ever be released.” 

“We’ll fight. Better to face an enemy you know is coming for you than one posing as a friend.” 

“Wise words, perhaps. But Lara Croft, you underestimate Trinity. Which is unfortunate, as you have first-hand knowledge of their clout.” 

Virginia is but a girl in appearance, but her voice is ancient, and it sends shivers down your spine. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I speak of your parents. Who else but Trinity could be behind the disappearance of two such explorers of the mystical?” 

You think your hand is probably crushing Sam’s, but perhaps not, because her squeeze back in equally as tight. 

“You’re lying. Their plane—it went down—it wasn’t—” 

Virginia smiles. “If you both come with me, I will tell you all I know. Do not make hasty judgments without knowing all the facts, Lara Croft. Is that not what you were taught? And Samantha Nishimura. I know you have felt it—the stirrings of power. I know you crave answers of your own. Do not deny yourselves; for I swear to you, no harm will come to you by my hand.” 

You hear Sam’s swallow and turn to her, baring your back to Virginia, in what is surely a foolish move. But you need to see all of Sam—need to see every flicker of emotion across her face when you take both of her hands in yours. 

“Lara…” 

“I don’t like this, Sam.” 

“I don’t either, but I don’t know that we have any options. What is she _is_ telling the truth about your parents?” 

_What if Trinity really does want Sam_ , you think instead, and nod. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” you vow. 

Sam smiles weakly and brushes her lips against yours. “Please, you think I’ve been doing all this training for nothing? I’m not going to let anything happen to _you_ , Croft.” 

“Okay,” you breathe, dropping one of Sam’s hands to pivot towards the eerie figure before you, who is watching with a shrewd smile that does not fit her features. “Okay.” 

Virginia does not speak, but you think her slight glow intensifies as she turns and head towards the seemingly innocent, small rock outcropping behind her. 

You take a deep breath and hear Sam do the same. 

“To our next adventure, then.” 

Sam’s fingers shift and interlock with yours, and you think you might be ready for whatever lies ahead.  


End file.
